The chamber groaned as if alive, its stone walls vibrating under the combined weight of clashing powers. The lurid glow of the Crimson Eclipse flickered overhead, filtered through the swirling vortex that pulsed above the altar. Blood and ash stained the ancient floor, where runic lines throbbed with malevolent life.
Layla and Ronan, battered and bleeding, struggled to their feet on opposite sides of the chamber. Sparks of arcane energy danced over Layla’s staff, the darkness she once sealed away now blazing through her veins. Across from her, Ronan channeled the primal fury of his wolf spirit, bruised ribs forgotten in the heat of desperation. Together, they formed a tenuous balance—maternal and paternal magic rising in uneasy accord.
At the room’s center stood Aria, the heir, battered
